not at all, she’s tried coke a few times and it always went like this...

"Want some of this coke baby?"

"No I cant, I cant, I really cant"

"Sure?"

"Well maybe just a wee bit"

Snnnnnnnnnnnnnnort!

FFW 6 hours... and we have a raging Hoover nosed maniac with one eye going to the shops and the other one coming back with the change - demanding more sex, coke,porn,sex,coke,porn - you get the picture. She even got so off her face on a bottle of poppers at T in the Park she had to be carried a good mile or so back to the bloody tent. But that's just the preamble...

A good few years back we went to a really nice hotel in a wee fishing village in Scotland - Portpatrick to be precise. With some time to kill before dinner, lolling around in our room, I decide to roll a joint.

"Want to try some hash babes"

"No I can't smoke"

"You can eat it though"

"Hmmm? Ok - not much though!"

A small piece of hash the size of a pea is consumed then we took the dogs for a walk along the beach. Drugs? No effect. An hour later there we are in the rather posh hotel bar, Mrs Spimf in a LBD looking leggy, demure and pretty damn hot.

"Would you like a drink before dinner darling”?

"Yes, sherry please"

Now I don’t know what sort of fucked up constitution my Mrs has but it would seem a tiny speck of cannabis can lie dormant in her tumblyboos until one small sherry is sloshed down there, then it begins...

Giggling - fair enoughTalking Pish - fair enoughSudden loss of short term memory resulting is said pish being repeated on loop - fair enoughAttempt to get off bar stool and go to the loo resulting in KO style collapse in the middle of the room - erm no.

To make matters even better she had landed smack on the floor at the owner’s feet who was chatting with her daughter. Soon revived and seemingly now ok (ish) while rubbing a slight bump on her head, Mrs Spimf (brilliantly) explains to the hotel owner she might have had an adverse reaction to some prescription medicine. Owner promptly offers to call a doctor; she even offered to act as a witness in the lawsuit she had conjured from nowhere that was going to 'ruin' the 'idiot' doctor that would prescribe such powerful drugs without proper warning. Suddenly Mrs Spimf is fine and dandy again so we decide to proceed with dinner. She's now hungry - celle surprise! A sip of wine and a nibble at her starter and she’s off again. Talking pish, swaying about, stuck on a Groundhog Day loop - the lot!

Tits.

Quietly, I ask the waiter if he could sent the rest of the food up to the room and try to make as dignified an exit as one can with Ken Fucking Dodd in a cocktail dress waving and belming to a room full of bemused diners. So there we are back in the room - immediately Mrs Spimf strips naked. No idea why, the only thing I was intending eating at that point was my bloody steak, which was supposedly on its way up.

The poor bloke trundles in with a splendid tray of delights, complete with comedy silver dome things on them. Give him his due he barely batted an eyelid as I hastily tried to cover my mad as a bat butt naked wife. He left with a smirk and large tip. After ten minutes of watching my wife struggling to use cutlery (she seemed to be knitting an imaginary scarf from invisible wool) I suggested at that point she might well be better in bed. So in she pops.

So there she is: Portpatrick's answer to Jon Belushi writhing around in bed like Linda Blair's epileptic understudy. After some 'discussion' Mrs Spimf decides it is in fact...

"Nothing to do with the drugs - it must have been when I hit my head"

She then panics - decides she has a 'brain clot' from her tumble earlier (I had a few choice words on that one). Nevertheless Mrs Spimf demands a doctor be summoned.

"Head injuries must be investigated!"

So there I am - no choice. I called the owner and asked if she could discreetly request a local doctor give us a quick call just to reassure my idiot wife she is not destined to spend the remainder of her days communicating with one eyebrow. Ten minutes later an ambulance with full blues and twos rocks up.

Fuck.

All too soon the paramedics enter the room, along with the bloody owner and her daughter as well for good measure. After I managed to tactfully ask them to get the fuck out I had a quite word with the paramedic.

"Don’t think its the bump to the head mate" (looks around conspiratorially) "she's actually eaten a little bit of cannabis"

Paramedic looks confused,

"How much"

"Erm maybe enough for two fairly miserly joints"

Paramedic scratches head.

"What’s she doing eating it - your supposed to smoke it, at least that's what I do (winks), having said that if she's had a bump to the head we should maybe take her in for observation"

Tits.

So they go to lift the pale and shaking Mrs Spimf out of bed

"Wait!"

"She’s naked"

"Oh right, fine where are her clothes"

I gather up the frilly black undies, stockings heels and LBD and realise the chances of getting her dressed without more drama were, to even the most optimistic observer, bugger all.

"Fuck it, wrap her up in the duvet, I’ll take the clothes with me"

And so they did. Then popped her on a little chair with wheels affair and lifted her up....

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" cries my lunatic wife - "I'M SCARED OF HEIGHTS!!!!"

"Erm your only about 6 inches off the floor love"

"OH? ...Well it felt a lot higher"

*faceplams*

So we process through the hotel lobby - the entire staff and guests it would seem had now lined up to see the drama unfolding with 'my lovely wife' now back on a high waving like a mong on a day trip to a window factory.

Kill me now, please God - end this now.

So we sat in the ambulance - it was at least 40 minutes to the nearest A&E. Mrs Spimf cracking jokes all the way. Me sitting there with a face like thunder. They treated Mrs Spimf and I like we had been up all night smearing methadone on a baby, they grilled me on what she had 'actually taken' then eventually they let us home at around 3 am. So on top of the cost of the fancy hotel, meal and a ruined LBD, the taxi back to the hotel cost nearly 50 quid - about 15 years ago.

18 months ago this story took place, and what a torrid time it was too!!

I had backache, and a lump on my right bollock, and nothing eased the pain (the doctors were failing to diagnose me properly but that stories been done) i started with paracetamol, no change, codiene, nothing, Tramadol, nada, zilch zero nothing. Then came the eventual diagnosis....a rather nasty and aggressive dose of cancer....fucksocks!! Well it turned out the backache was caused by the spread of the cancer into my lymph nodes in my abdomen which in turn were pressing on my spine, causing said pain. Anyway, to combat the pain I was introduced to Morphine, both slow release 12hr tablets with oramorph liquid in between as top ups. Now one of the side effects of morphine in the quantities i was taking, apart from being totally spaced out and seeing things, was constipation.....proper didnt shit for 3 weeks constipation....and the more i didnt shit, the more my bowel grew, pressing further on the tumours, in turn pressing harder on my spine, increasing the pain and taking more morphine to combat it...ad infinitum....see a pattern emerging here??

Eventually the doctors listened to me and gave me an examination properly, fecal impaction with 2 possible outcomes.

1. Take a shit and feel better 2. Dont take a shit, burst my bowel, become badly infected and probably die

I decided that dropping the kids off at the pool was probably a good idea but i just couldnt go..at all....i was blocked solid....enter my friend the anal suppository! (inserted by a rather attractive nurse i must add). What followed stripped me of any semblance of dignity i may of been holding onto during the build up to chemo. Suppository inserted with instructions to hold on at least 5 minutes before visiting the hospital bathroom 30 yards down the hall (did i mention i hadnt checked where the toilet was beforehand, or whether it was free?). So i laid in my hospital bed and waited :-

one minute....a little light gurgling in my anal tract two minutes....this gurgling is intense (nurse returns with small cardoard tray that sits inside the toilet for me to shit into so they can check what i have passed) Three minutes....toes curling, chocolate starfish in spasm Four minutes....gotta get to toilet....quick...fucking quick!! Five minutes....race down hall in blind panic trying to find an empty room for a shit...luck is on my side as the second one is free, i hurl myself in throwing the cardboard thing in the pan ready as my arse dances the foxtrot and my guts spasm, finally i turn to seat myself but not quick enough.....VESUVIUS erupts out of my arse at mach 10 and three weeks worth of food sprays forth as i lower myself. the first blast sprays the toilet cistern, the wall and most of the back of my legs. the second convulsive expulsion makes it into the cardoard tray only to bounce back out and spray me up the back and cover what is left of the toilet room! I sat there for what felt like 20 minutes endlessly shitting and gone past caring where it was going before ringing the bell and requesting some nurse assistance. The attractive nurse came back! the shame was written on my face (well the bits of my face that werent covered in liquid shit)....her face was covered in shock, shock and awe that one person could cause so much damage and degredation with just one shit! I was helped into an adjacent cubicle and showered off for half an hour and in the meantime a cleaning crew were called (after "biohazard" tapes were put up stopping entry into the toilet). The last thing i saw before sleep mercifully took me in its warm embrace was a team of 3 cleaners in chemical suits and face masks entering the toilet...poor fuckers.

Thankfully the cancer was treated well and i am now in remission. and thats my story of the horrors of morphine!!!

Length?? none whatsoever, it was all liquid!
(spinksits only kinky the first time, Sat 18 Sep 2010, 12:10,
12 replies)

Shroom with a view
Many years ago my colleagues and I stayed in a Cornish cottage over Christmas. One morning we quaffed mushie tea and set the board up to play Risk. I wandered to the bog but my attention was caught by a picture in one of the bedrooms as I passed. It was a painting of a spaniel in a bosky glade. But it was odd. I looked closer. It was 3D, "Oho! A hologram", I thought. It wasn't. But it was very 3D. By moving from side to side in front of it, I could actually look behind the spaniel. I decided it was an alcove in the wall, painted with a woodland scene, with a china spaniel statuette sitting in it. And with a clear glass frame over it all.

I went to the shitter and returned, with my interesting 3D spaniel alcove tale, to start the game of Risk. The living room was quiet. And dark. And empty. The board had been put away and there were empty wine bottles strewn around. Everyone was in bed.

Turns out I'd been looking at the spaniel for something like fourteen hours.
(judgetheobscureused to sweep in butchers' shops., Fri 17 Sep 2010, 19:21,
8 replies)

My Dad was working for the drugs squad...
So my dad, one of the finest human beings ever, joins the Police as a civilian driver. He loved it, looking after the motor pool of Hampshire police, getting to drive high performance vehicles, road trips all over the country, picking up ne’er do wells and recidivists far and wide and doing his bit for society. His stories are legend but this one still makes me smile.

Part of his job was to move evidence, equipment and generally any stuff needed to go from one place to another. So he got to see a lot of things and one day him and his mate get a call to bring a big van and go to a farm just outside Andover.They take the Transit and have a lovely drive in the country and turn up at this ramshackle farm in the middle of nowhere.The DI from the drugs squad is there and is rubbing his hands with glee, he has turned up what is one of the biggest cannabis farms to date with over 150 plants at full bloom and a couple of growers who had started to harvest the weed. The farmer had allowed his son to use one of his huge tomato greenhouses to grow the weed and in a close knit community word had got out and hence the raid. This was 1980 and was very unusual, so the process and procedures they have in place now to deal with this was completely absent. As they had never done this before and that is a huge amount to keep for evidence and they obviously can’t leave it there, a quick call to the Met and find out that all they have to do is bag the flowering top of the plants for evidence and then destroy the rest.So Dad and his mate John are left while the Drugs squad take the growers in for questioning and celebrate the win. They start to realise that this is a pretty big job so they cut the heads, bag it and proceed to bag up the rest and take it to the station.As there is nowhere left to store it they lock it in the basement and destroy it the next day.So next day mid morning Dad and John take it to the incinerator in the boiler room, now there must have been about 40 large lack sacks of this stuff, now in this is a windowless room and they start to burn this stuff, its green and very smoky, not only that the air is filled with the smell and their hands are covered on the resin from the plants.They both started to find things very funny and were getting very hungry so they nipped upstairs for a cup of tea and started to snack their way through the choccie biccies which were tasting very very good. Eventually they went back down and realised it was taking far too long and if they used the outside incinerator at the back of the police station they could get it done far quicker. So they took the remaining bags out and stated to burn it. By then sense and reason had been left behind and they had a great idea that if they built a big bonfire they could get rid of it in one go.And build it they did, it was all going beautifully and by this time the smoke was billowing out and they didn’t seem to mind which way the wind blew the smoke and were having the best and funniest day ever. At that point the somebody informed the chief super about a big bonfire at the back of the station and he came down to deal with it as he had seen them from his window rolling over and pissing about. He had opened his window to shout down, smelled what was burning and realised pretty quickly what was going on and being a good mate of my dad from the Hampshire police golf society which dad was the secretary, saw the funny side. By this time the billowing clouds had drawn more people, the fire brigade were called and my dad was oblivious to it all.it was now mid afternoon and the Chief Super got a PC to drive them home and advised them to go straight off to bed. I came home from college to find my dad in the kitchen with food all over the shop, red eyed and he was talking absolute bollocks , I could smell the smoke on him and gradually pieced together what had happened and when I told him he was stoned, he refused to believe it he was just a little ‘light headed and hungry’. After I made him a huge dinner he wen't off to bed and not a word was mentioned about it the following day. I got the full story years later at his retirement do and his colleagues were remorseless in ribbing them about it with nicknames like Scooby and shaggy, and making druggy hippy references and all in good fun.To be honest I was a little disappointed at the time to hear about that huge amount just being destroyed but the comedy of seeing my dad off his trolley on weed was brilliant.
(nimrodihniomaking gravy for one., Tue 21 Sep 2010, 9:55,
1 reply)

Not funny.
Apologies for length in advance.

This is not a mad crazy LOLWTFDRUGS story, merely the tale of a youngun who did some silly things and lived to regret it.

Let me begin by saying that I was not the typical South African youngster. Learning to read at age 3 and going to a "special" school for sub A (reception/year 1/first year of school) for having "learning difficulties" tends to pigeonhole a person, regardless of intention. Though I must say, I'm not completely absolved of blame, developing a massive victim complex when I was still in a cot. Looking back, it does not seem completely normal to lie in a metal cage festooned with colourful teddies and cutouts of Winnie-the_pooh whispering "everybody hates me" to myself. Yet this is the first thing I can remember from my childhood.

Primary school passed in a blur. I was convinced that I was a pariah amongst my classmates, and acted accordingly. This probably did not do my adolescent self any favours - kids remember things, guys, no matter what child psychologists say. Throughout my middle-and-high school career, I was convinced that I was looked upon as a freak, a weirdo, perhaps even someone evil and otherworldly. It was at about this time that I started reading HP Lovecraft and Edgar Allen Poe, wishing that like Fortunato, I could be sealed off with nothing but darkness and a cask of strong, tasty alcohol to keep me company.

See, this is where my story becomes interesting. If you think that this is nothing more than a badly-punctuated teenage rant, allow me to adjust your viewpoint. By the age of ten, I was regularly drinking heavily from the contents of my parents' liquor cabinet, seeking some kind of remedy to dull the edges of my own neuroses. Never mind that these were created out of whole cloth within the darkest reaches of my mind (can young minds have dark corners? I'm not entirely sure), I thought I had a problem and took steps to remedy it. It was amazing how many times I was off sick with "a cold" or "the flu". Strange that my parents did not pick up on this... the people I whom I was convinced were monsters ever since the age of 4, when I read "Where The Wild Things Are".

By the time I got to grade 10 (16 years old) I was already an accomplished drinker. Vodka? Pssh - easy. Brandy? We PERFECTED the stuff... if you're British, find a bottle of KWV or Van Rijn 10 year old, tell me how smooth and complex they are. Nothing to it. So when I went to my first house party, at age 16, people marveled at the amount I could drink. When my father picked me up (in his BMW 325 - we were and still are rather well off, this is not a tale of poverty), he commented that I smelled of alcohol. I brushed it off and got on with my life.

This continued until I was 17, at which point things got slightly out of hand, to the point I was bumming lifts home off older mates to avoid being flat-out fucked in front of my parents. On one of these occasions, I stumbled down the road to the home of my friend S. S and I had been friends of a certain kind for a long time - she was forever single, and we experimented a lot with sex and usual teenage bullshit. She, however, was very into smoking and weed, starting both when she was 14 - the same time we started experimenting.

Anyway. So I managed to walk the 800 meters to her house, to find her and all her mates smoking weed. Being drunk, I took a massive drag on what turned out to be pure chronic (serious stuff). Pulled a massive whitey and passed out on her floor. Vowed never to do it again... famous last words.

Over the course of the next two years, I took up smoking with a vengeance. 20 Marlboro Lights and about 3 grams of weed a day got me through matric, somehow, with three distinctions. Can't remember half of it, so don't ask how it happened. A year spent living in a commune in Israel didn't help much either.

Last year, I started chef training. There, I met a girl named K. Queer as a hat full of rainbows, she nevertheless became my friend. Bad Idea. K was seriously in love with coke. She got me involved, and from then on it was all systems WHOOOOOSH, line or 2 in the morning, couple of beers and a spliff at lunch and another line or 2 to come down... don't ask how that worked.

I lost many people's trust, I almost lost my family (almost got kicked out of the house many times, but that's a story for another time) and all my so-called "friends" fucked off at high speed as soon as they noticed how fucked I was. Thankfully, I never got too out of control - never arrested, never convicted of any crime.

In January of this year, K and I decided to drink a case of Savanna (crap cider) and do about a R1000 (about #100)'s worth of coke. The last thing I remember is going to sleep, and waking up naked in her bed, with her dealer sleeping on the floor. In a strange clear moment, I got in my car, drove off, phoned a series of people (K her dealer, my dealer and his friend) and told them all to fuck off. This sounds impossible, I know, but it actually happened. I was fucking lucky to get off scot free - there were so many times that I could have killed myself and people around me.

I'm by no means clean now - I still smoke way too much and drink enough for five people. However, six years of meditative therapy has given me a new perspective:

Still with me? OK, cool. Read on.

It's like this: Whatever happened, I did to myself. NO one else is to blame, neither my parents nor those people I went to high school with whom I thought were gunning for me. My life is in my hands, and any drug-or-booze-related fuckups are my own problem.

Reading B3ta helped too - it's really nice to know that people don't always see the negative side of what could be a terrible situation. So thanks, guys. You helped me see the lighter side of things.

I'm getting on my feet now. Four years of culinary training helped me land a job as sous-chef at a fantastic restaurant in Cape Town, where I'm earning enough to achieve independence and move into my own place, away from my parents. On October first, four of us are moving into a beautiful house in Plumstead, in the south of Cape Town. This is a new deal for me... no more coke, no more weed and no more fucking people around.

Apologies for length. This came as a surprise for me too, I didn't expect to contribute to this QOTW at all - for some reason, I felt this had to be said.

As a northerner
i like to inject ectasy straight into my mouth, we call it e by gum...
(djgalaxe, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 14:17,
7 replies)

Tenuous pea
Not so much MASSIVEDRUGSLOLZ as legal-drugs-disaster. This was around the time of my birthday a few of years ago.

I'd been off work most of the week with a condition which had me backed up pretty badly. I was spending my time lying in bed, watching Family Guy DVDs, eating ice cream and wanking whenever I felt too sorry for myself. On my girlfriends insistence I went to see the doctor and she prescribed me a senna-based product to ease things along. Not being familiar with the wonderful world of laxatives I imagined that on my gridlocked digestive system the effect would be to induce normal bowel movements once again. Oh how wrong I was.

I dutifully necked the prescribed drugs and went back to bed. We'd planned to go for a meal with friends in the evening to celebrate my birthday, but I really wasn't feeling up to it. However, the missus insisted I come out. Not for the last time in that relationship, I really should have stood my ground.

So we're in Soho enjoying a curry (why?). After the big meal and a few beers I'm really not feeling too hot. Everyone else wants to go elsewhere and carry on drinking, but I make my excuses and leave, thinking I can get home and watch some more Family Guy. And maybe have another wank.

As I'm walking back to Charing Cross I feel a rumbling omen in my gut and a small *FFFRRRP* escapes my butt cheeks. Alright thinks I, I'll just stop into the crapper at the station and release this long overdue load.

A couple of minutes later and I realise the situation is rather more urgent than I'd previously anticipated when a sharp cramp hits me, causing me to stop and do that cross-legged, doubled-over pose as I try to use my buttocks to rearrange the contents of my rectum into a less explosive configuration.

By the time I reach the station entrance I'm in serious trouble. Sweating like a Pope in a playground, I inch forward painfully slowly, as every movement of my lower body threatens to unleash the fury within with a comical *PARP*. Just a hundred yards further and I'll be ok. Other people arriving at the station are shooting me puzzled and pitiful glances as I struggle forwards, looking to all the world like a parkinson's sufferer attempting the tightrope. But I can make it, I know I can.

Just as I reach the main concourse, barely 20 yards from the toilet entrance, it happens. With an almighty bubbling roar from my lower intenstines--it felt like the depth-charge scene from U-571 was being replayed in my gut--I momentarily lose sphincter control and I feel my pants fill with a gritty warmth. There's no other option now, I have to make a dash for the toilet before this gets worse!

Bad idea. As soon as I start to run, the full force of the faecal flood smashes through my puny anus. Within seconds it's too much for my underpants as several days worth of shit makes its sloppy rush for freedom. It's steaming in a raging torrent down my leg and as I run I can feel it flicking off my shoes. I think I hear a scream of disgust from behind me, but all I can concentrate on is the toilet steps ahead. Down the steps and through the turnstile, I secure myself in the closest free cubicle, barely landing on the seat in time to expel the last remnants safely and I pebble-dash the bowl so violently it sprays back onto my arse cheeks. My groans and the *PRRRAAP-PRAAARRAP-PRRAAAAAARRRRP* trumpeting from my burning arsehole combine to make a terrible symphony for anyone unfortunate enough to be listening.

Exhausted, I clean myself off using an entire roll of paper. My underpants are filled and will have to be discarded. The legs of my jeans are completely soaked in runny, stinking shit. It's coated the backs of my shoes and even managed to find its way inside my socks. I am essentially a huge, walking shit stain. I start to rub at my clothes with the cheap, scratchy paper. It's not absorbing anything, so, dignity in shreds, I resort to scooping the crap out of my jeans with my bare hands.

It took me a full half hour to clean myself up, but you'd hardly notice the difference. I'd managed to get the worst off my shoes, but my jeans are still heavy with shit. My hands are stained a muddy brown colour. Then I realise I have no change of clothes, and still have to take a 25-minute train ride home. I feel utterly wretched, ashamed and alone and I sit back on the toilet seat and begin to cry.

The journey home is one I never, ever want to repeat. As I leave the toilet I take a furtive glance back the way I came and see a brown trail leading back towards the station entrance. Luckily (well I bloody well deserved some luck at some point in this story), my train is waiting on the platform and I am able to put my head down and quickly get on board. I'm terrified someone I know will get on the train and discover my shame, so slide down in my seat as low as possible to try and avoid being seen. The stench is awful and hangs in my nose, almost making me sick. Every time I move my jeans squelch and stick to my clothes. My spirit broken, I pray for the ground to open and swallow me whole, but then realise it would probably spit me straight back out again in disgust.

If you were the poor girl who sat on the seat in front of me for that entire journey, covering your nose and mouth with your scarf and periodically making retching noises, I am so, so sorry.

My girlfriend returned home somewhat later to find me (post-shower) in bed, shellshocked and hugging my pillow, the washing machine putting my dirty clothes through their second cycle of the night. "What happened?" she asks. All I can manage is to look straight ahead at the wall, still clutching my pillow for comfort. "I told you I didn't want to go out", I whimper.
(pmsc, Sat 18 Sep 2010, 20:14,
7 replies)

Coming clean to my mum
When I first began driving I borrowed my mum's car a lot. Enjoying the freedom of the road I soon stocked up on indie compilation tapes and sweets and visited friends around the country.

One evening my mum came back from work and asked to sit down for a serious talk. She pulled out a small white tablet embossed with a letter on it and said to me, with tears in her eyes: "I found this in my car. I want you to answer me straight. Is this drugs?"

I took it off her, looked at it (I'd obviously dropped it in the car) and told her the truth in a calm tone of voice.

Fuck it, he's deid
For a number of years, I worked on a public health project monitoring levels of HIV among injecting drug users in Glasgow. To be eligible to take part, the drug user must have injected at least once in the previous six months. If they had, we then filled in a long and detailed questionnaire about all aspects of their drug use, sexual behaviour, general health and so on. Out of the hundred or so that I interviewed over the years, one man’s story stood out. I asked him the opening question, ‘Have you injected in the last six months?’. He replied, ‘Oh yes.’ This is the story of his last injection.

He claimed that he normally injected heroin three times a day. On the day in question, he had had his usual morning hit and was sitting in his flat when the doorbell rang. It was an old acquaintance who now lived in the far north of Scotland. She was in town to score a few bags to take back up the road with her. Could he help her out? The deal was he would buy five £20 bags, she would take four up north and they would share the fifth bag between them. So out he went and, very quickly, the deal was done. Back at the flat, he set about splitting the fifth bag and they decided to have a hit ‘for the road’. As he told it, ‘Greedy bastard that I was, I went into the kitchen and gave myself the bigger share.’ He also forgot that he had already had his morning hit. At this point, Lou Reed starts singing ‘Perfect Day’ and our protagonist disappears through the floor.

An ambulance is called and the paramedics arrive. He is given naloxone but, as he’s being stretchered out to the waiting ambulance, he goes into cardiac arrest. The stretcher is set down on the pavement (two or three people stand and watch including, apparently, his brother). Out comes the defibrillator. He’s zapped once. Nothing. Twice. Nothing. Three times. Nothing. One of the ambulance crew says, ‘Fuck it, he’s deid.’ And this is the thing, your man HEARS all this. It’s said that your hearing is the last sense to go when you go. So, lying there, in a smack-induced, near-total coma, he gets to hear someone pronounce him dead, and he’s utterly unable to tell them otherwise. One of the ambulance crew then says, ‘One more, and we’ll call it a day’. Fourth time lucky - his heart starts. And that, he said, was the last time he had injected heroin.

The cynic in me was tempted to write it off as another junkie urban myth. However, later in the year I was working on another project examining the medical records of patients who had been through detox. Going through the files one day, there were the records of a man who had arrested on the pavement. It listed the time and place and number of defib attempts. It’s possible that he had just imagined what the ambulance crew had said. Either way, it seemed to have kept him off the needle for a while.
(ThisCaledonianClownhas left it far too late, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 11:05,
5 replies)

A friend of mine
told me about his return trip from Helter Skelter. He'd nodded off in the passenger seat and woke up to the driver having a bit of a panic: the headlights of a lorry were looming towards them and the driver was frantically trying to spin the wheel. The other two passengers woke up too, and the driver, after a few further panicked stamps on the break, opened the door and hurled himself out of the car.

It transpired shortly after this that all four of them had pulled over into a layby for a nap several hours earlier, and the driver had woken up, seen the approaching headlights and, in his addled haze, assumed he was still driving. Where the idea of hurling himself out of the car came from though, I've no idea.
(luckybluecoat, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 14:14,
3 replies)

I hate people who take drugs
customs men for example.
(Falco, Thu 16 Sep 2010, 15:33,
2 replies)

my cousin
tripping her tits off once with some of her friends. they were driving to a party, when suddenly, my cousin yells "STOP THE CAR!" thinking that she was going to be sick, her friend slammed on the brakes. my cousin shot out of the car and over to a poor man who was sitting in the road. she sat with him for ten minutes, listening to the tale of how he'd been dumped by his girlfriend. after hugging him and telling him things would get better soon, she went back to the car."sharon(for that is her name), what the fuck was that about?" one of her mates enquired."i was comforting that poor bloke," she replied, "his bitch of a girlfriend has just kicked him out."her friends looked at one another, before the bravest among them turned and said "um, sharon, that's not a man. it's a dog."
(Smash Monkeyis going off the rails on a crazy train, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 22:44,
5 replies)

Young love and Vicodin
When I was younger (not older, as I am not a time-traveller, I cannot yet tell you my future), I had a cranial cave-in, courtesy of a friendly neighbourhood car accident.

Just one week before running my head into the front of a lorry, I met a young man named Aaron. Aaron and I got along so smashingly, I was heard to tell my roommate, “Good Jesus, he might just be the most annoying man I have ever met.”

Upon my release from the hospital, I was given a mind-bending brew of opiates, brain-numbers and muscle-relaxers which left me tame, lethargic and completely incapable of forming new memories. I spent most of my time asleep, attempting to prevent my head from falling off or making the occasional trip to the local canteen to try to remember what food was.

Aaron, whose opinion of me was considerably higher than mine of him, installed himself at the side of my bed, holding my withered hand and wiping my brow. Night and day, he gazed into my unfocused Vicodin-drowned eyes and, over the course of time, fell in love. He became a loving boyfriend and we enjoyed frequent intimate acts. I deflowered him, and he declared it the most perfect day of his life. He was meant to be with me, he said, and he would be with me forever.

Many months later, my parents picked me up to enjoy my Easter vacation with them. Faster than you can say ‘drug dependency’, my mother flushed all of my meds down the toilet and, after several days of my abject agonising depression and sicking up all down my tits, sent me back to my dorm.

I arrived, clear-headed, to find that my roommate had moved out. Aaron knocked up at my door and, although I did understand who he was and what he was doing there, I wasn’t quite aware that we were as in love as he said we were. He was fundamentally a familiar stranger, but nothing more than the nameless person you sit next to on the bus every day.

It was a matter of moments before he had irritated me to the point where I wanted to stab myself in the ears. “You’ve changed,” he told me, accusingly. Yes, Aaron, that is because I am awake. Well, he said with dollops of love dripping from his soppy idiot eyes, we can still make it work.

And we did. For one more day.

I couldn’t stand this idiot-eyed cavemanic soap-dodging muttonhead. Yes, he was bearable – when I was unconscious and couldn’t hear or smell him. And how could he only ‘love’ me when I had the brain activity of a shoe? That’s rather rape-y, yes? Speaking of which, I have zero recollection of ever enjoying a bit of penis-waggling with him, nor do I remember a significant amount of what he refers to ‘the greatest relationship of his life.’ He is genuinely a non-entity in my life story, aside from being the other half of a long-term relationship that I just don’t remember.

My aggrieved roommate, upon hearing that I’d turfed Aaron back into the world to find another woman incapacitated by drugs, moved back in. She asked, “What were you thinking?” and I could genuinely and pleasingly answer, “Well, thanks to the drugs, not much at all.”
(TheSnarkoh, c'mon, like you didn't see me coming, Mon 20 Sep 2010, 11:13,
15 replies)

Bit of a pearoast, but as a student...
...I was fortunate enough to find myself sharing a room in halls with the most popular dealer on campus, so as a result I spent my first year getting quite comprehensively monged, mashed and spazzed up without paying for any of it. Result!

Anyway, this story chronicles one such evening. I'd been out doing MASSIVE BONGS and a little bit of acid, and was wending my weary way home through Victoria Park in Leicester, when I caught a snatch of live music through the trees. Looking over, I could see a sort of glowing point which looked to my fuzzy eyes like the entrance to a big marquee, and it was from here that the music was emanating. Feeling kind of stoned and wrecked, I started to have doubts about my sanity - Vicky Park wasn't known for its late-night music festivals - and I honestly wondered if I was having some sort of hallucinogenic flashback to Glastonbury. So naturally I ambled over to investigate, because what would be the point of having a hallucinogenic flashback if I just ignored it and went home to bed?

Getting closer, I saw that this glowing point wasn't the entrance to a marquee at all, but a free-standing, slightly translucent, illuminated, three-sided pyramid. Sat in the grass around this pyramid were a bunch of people drinking from paper cups and nodding appreciatively at the music, and looking closer I could just about make out a band inside the pyramid who were playing Stairway to Heaven.

At this point, I must have looked a little lost, as a guy approached me and gave me a cup of tea. He stood there, watching the band, and as I sipped at my tea I had to ask: "Sorry mate, but what the fuck is going on?"

He replied: "Oh, this is a marketing exercise for PG tips - we've got ten of these giant pyramid tea-bags and we're using them to play a 24-hour gig in cities around Britain."

I stayed for a bit, then left with my head reeling. The next morning I went past the park, but apart from some flattened grass there was no sign of the previous night's weirdness. I asked my friends who lived near the park if they remembered anything untoward, but no-one had seen anything. I was beginningto think I'd imagined the whole thing when I spotted a copy of the Leicester Mercury on the way home from uni. There on the front cover was a picture of the giant pyramid with the caption: "Have the aliens landed? No, it's just a tea bag."

I cut it out and kept it by my bed as a reminder: no matter how many drugs you take, there will always be someone in advertising who is taking more.
(emveecruor deo cruoris, Fri 17 Sep 2010, 12:02,
2 replies)

This one time at university
Quentin and Rupert got some drugs from a drugdealer to take in the toilets at the Hilda's bop.We all took the drugs, it was really mental! I got totally high!

I got so high, right that I thought that instead of being at the bop, dancing I was at the centre of the earth fighting a giant badger! How mad is that right! Then the drug dealer came becuase we hadn't given him the correct change and he started to chase me but I thought he was a bong and tried to smoke him lol!

Then I was sick everywhere but I was so high that I thought the sick was money and tried to use it to pay the bong, it was like my mind was melting.

The police came but they let me off becuase my uncle is Kavanagh QC and my Dad is Judge John Deed and it wasn't drugs just sherbert and it made my nose hurt.
(WormuIus, Fri 17 Sep 2010, 11:51,
5 replies)

Nightclub toilets
Whilst working as a bouncer a few years back, I regularly worked with a truly psychotic, but genuinely very intelligent and funny individual. One night, doing a routine toilet check, we heard two guys inside one cubicle, obviously indulging in the devil's dandruff.He started banging on the door with his fist, and shouted, "One of you had better be sucking cock in there, or you are both in a world of shit!"
(madoda, Thu 16 Sep 2010, 20:07,
2 replies)

My mate was on acid and he walked into a dentist's office and said "I need help; I think I'm a moth"

the worst sex i (n)ever had
was thanks to weed. i was at my ex's flat one weekend and somehow we had acquired a bag of it. now i hate smoking in all forms, so he was banned from smoking, even in his own flat. as compensation i agreed to bake it into brownies. i didn't look at all suspicious haring it around sainsbury's on clapham high street at 9am, buying nothing but a couple of boxes of chocolate brownie ready mix, oh no.

i am generally pretty bad at all forms of domestication, including cooking, and sure enough i managed to burn these things so they were like horrendous charred rocks. we choked one down each, and felt no different. so we had another. still no different. this was when we made our fatal error. we forced down a third one each, and then he went for a fourth. STILL no different. until we suddenly realised it was 3pm and we were still lying on his sofas generally staring at nothing and drooling at each other. then i decided i wouldn't mind sex.

"shall we go to bed?" i asked.

after about 20 minutes he raised his head. "oh yeah. i am so so hard for you now." there was a long pause.

"you make me so so wet." another very long pause.

"how wet?"

i thought about it. for some time. then i thought about it a bit more. "i don't know. because i can't move my hand inside my jeans to check."

"shall i come over and find out?" he suggested. and fell off the sofa. "tell you what, come over here and suck my cock."

"yeah. great. in a minute," i replied. and also fell off the sofa.

we woke up about 14 hours later having missed (i) lunch (ii) dinner (iii) my friend's birthday party and (iv) breakfast.

Are you fucked? No, but my headache's gone...
Back in the day, when every weekend was a pillfest of clubbing, after-parties and slow, sensual come downs, a housemate and I used to make a very pretty penny, in a very grey area of the law.

We were drug dealers, to an extent. Him, a fine arts student. Me, a business school dropout. And together, we made over £50,000 in less than a year.

The two of us had something in common, we were always asked at clubs, parties and festivals, if we, 'knew anywhere we could score some pills'. I don't know why we were always pegged for dealers. But after one long night of constant questioning, we formulated a plan to cash in on our presumed identities.

Mr Fine Arts student designed an intricate, copper wire 'seal' in the shape of an apple, complete with tiny stalk and leaf. I then procured 1,000’s of paracetamol tablets, going from pharmacy to pharmacy, from to supermarket to supermarket, buying the maximum I could from each proprietor.

We then spent hours with a cut-throat razor, scraping the pills clean of any design or manufacturer's imprint. The 'cleaned' pills were then lined up and the re-branding would begin. Using a pair of thick tongs, the arty one would heat up the copper apple by holding it over a boiling kettle for a minute or two. He would then bring the hot wire down slowly onto the pills, and embed a perfect apple design in the centre.

We called them 'White Apples'. They looked the absolute business.

They sold for £15 a pop. We'd hit the clubs (things were easier back then, there were four clubs in town that held over 500 people) and push out 30-40 in the early part of the night, then leave comfortably before anyone realised our duplicity.

We dressed differently each week. And we were making money. The best were festivals. At Glastonbury we shifted over 500 White Apples. Reading and Leeds the same year, equally as many.

And then we got caught. Well arty-farty mate did. He was pulled with nearly 600 of our beauts on the way to Sheffield. He was arrested and bailed pending investigations. He maintained (as we’d practiced a thousand times), that the pills were paracetamol, that he was only selling them to ensure, 'kids didn't harm themselves on real drugs'. Analysis proved him correct. Paracetamol is not a controlled drug. The CPS did not like the look of this case one bit, and they left it well alone. No charges were brought.

So...if you were one of those poor little ravers, who'd saved up all week for your big Gatecrasher night out, and spent your group’s collective £150 on ten White Apples, I am well and truly sorry.

My drug paraphernaliaWhen I got home from a nice kick about in the park one Saturday in the summer, my mum was waiting for me, sat at the table, stern faced with a small item in front of her on the table.

'Sit down, you're father's on his way home. I want to ask first of all is there anything you're doing that you want to tell us about?'

'Ummm. No. What's up?' I said, eyeing the offending item and taking a seat opposite. Weighing up my options I considered confessing to something and hoping that was it. 'Sorry, but yes most of the phone bill was me looking at smut and wanking into a stupor' didn't seem like a good route to go down... 'let's see how this plays out' I thought.

'I was cleaning your room earlier and found this' She pushed the item towards me, still solemn faced. 'I know you've been smoking drugs, your father and I are both very upset'

Fuck, fuckety-fuck. FUCK! Anything but the weed. Smoking I'll get lectured for, but the weed will see me really fu... Hang on....

'Ermm. What do you think this is mum?'

'It's a hash pipe Scrumpy. I wasn't born yesterday.'

'You mean a kazoo mum....?'

'....... What?'

At this I picked up the 'hash pipe' and walked off, humming 'Crosstown Traffic' (If I was quicker at the time I would have gone for 'Purple Haze').

I heard my dad piss himself about 30 seconds after he came steaming through the front door...
(Scrumpydoes not negotiate with terrorists,, Thu 16 Sep 2010, 15:30,
2 replies)

I went on holiday to Sorento with my wife young son last year.
There was a lot of walking and my boy got tired a lot, so I spent much of it carrying him around on my shoulders.It was a lovely holiday; Italy is a very pretty country.

A couple of days after getting back home, I got a very painful and stiff neck. I suppose this was a result of carrying my son on my shoulders so much.My wife suggested that I take some ibuprofen. I said that it was too painful for ibuprofen and so we went to the walk in centre of my local hospital.It's not an A&E you understand. I wouldn't waste their time with a stiff neck. It's a special unit for when you can't get to see your doctor with a minor injury or ailment.Anyway, they said to take some ibuprofen.It didn't really help.
(baldmonkeya frothy foul-smelling vaginal discharge, Thu 16 Sep 2010, 14:36,
7 replies)

Early one morning...
Picking shrooms in the Sussex countryside. A "woman of a certain age" approaches, all pearls and twin-set, walking her dog. As she passes, she smiles and politely enquires as to what I was doing. "Picking wild mushrooms," I reply, smugly confident that this will satisfy her curiosity. "Oh, do you mean Happy Mushrooms?" she says. "Er, yes, that's right."

She continues on her way, and about half an hour later returns. As she approaches, she says, "I found these, are they the kind you're looking for?"

Acid
A friend of mine turns up at another friends house at 12 in the afternoon, wearing nothing but an oversize pair of tracksuit bottoms, covered in, and stinking of, shit.He sheepishly enters my mates house along with a few others, and heads straight for the shower. Whilst he showers the story begins to emerge. He, along with the others, were at a party and had decided to drop a couple of tabs of acid. Upon being kicked out of the party and all a little worse for wear, they head for the local park where my friend begins to act decidedly strange. He begins by taking off all his clothes and running around naked. He then proceeds to stand and wank furiously, at one point looking straight into the eyes of a (black) friend, uttering the words 'BIG BLACK DICK' and wanking vigorously in his direction. He then places himself in the middle of the playground roundabout and shrieks, 'MAISIE BOWEL MOVEMENT!'. Maisie Bowell was a girl at his school. He then proceeds to shit in a sock, and all over the roundabout.After this has continued for some time, he disappears into the bushes and returns 3 hours later wearing a pair of tracksuit bottoms several sizes too big, still sporting a huge erection and absolutely stinking of shite.Apparently whilst tripping he thought his friends were his 'oppressors', and to get them to 'leave him alone' he would have to do something really strange to freak them out, hence the shitting and wanking everywhere.

I couldn't look him in the face again, although strangely I still wished I had been there..
(elless, Thu 16 Sep 2010, 23:54,
3 replies)

Utter, utter FAIL (this one's dedicated to Armorous Badger, and all who sail in him):
Amsterdam, November 2007.

I'm the only smoker in a party of 4, and two of them have never taken hash.

By default I am therefore elected Minister for Obtaining Omgdrugs.

However, the party is mainly a drinking one, including an alcoholic, so much time is spent drinking.

However, on the final evening, it is pointed out that one shouldn't really return from Amsterdam with just tulip bulbs and a hangover, so tonight let's sort it out.

A few pints under, and it's decided that now is the time.

I say a few pints under, we'd started drinking at two, and it was now about 9pm.

So I wander out of the door and within two steps am facing a girl behind the counter in a coffee shop, who is on the business end of a fat spliff. At the end of the counter are some cup cakes.

We return to the boat we're staying on, with a few bottles of beer and wine, and I advise everyone rather pompously that considering Neil's behaviour last time, to go easy and just have a few bites initially.

Three minutes later and him over there's desperate to feel something and makes a grab for another piece, but "NO" I direct firmly, "Give it half an hour at least."

After an hour, everyone's fucking whinging at me "What's it meant to feel like?" "I don't get the excitement about it." "I just feel a bit pissed."

Turns out they were actual cakes. Nothing clever. They were just fucking cakes.

Now - before you start throwing things, pause awhile and perhaps think about choosing something a little heavier.

Amsterdam, March 2008.

We're in a party of four - this time all of us smokers, and keen ones at that.

Three nights in and we decide to head back to the boat for some beers.

Considering I am the one who's always up first thing in the morning for a walk and an explore, and thus I'll probably know where to purchase it, and definitely not because I'm the bitch of the party due to my kind and unconfrontational nature, I am duly elected Minister For Getting Beer.

I go to the supermarket, find the Amstel aisle, and proceed to purchase my own bodyweight in beer, which I bring back to the boat with triumphant glee.

A few cans later, and someone asks for another beer, but it does taste weird.

I know a lot of users still, and a lot of heavy people in London. I've had a couple of slip ups but, when I found myself in a flat in Stokey bagging a load of heroin and crack, sitting with a few friends who were discussing some horrific brutalities and with guns in the room, I remembered what I was risking, and, after that day, have kept clean.

Legal high
The first time I went to Africa with work, they said it was a hotbed of malaria, and I had to take Larium.

The side-effects list for Larium, as you may well know, fills two sides of A4 paper and ranges from "mild sweating" to "Actual DEATH, your soul stalking the Earth, screaming for all eternity".

For me, it was "Creating a bit of a Hullaballoo".

I saw the work doctor, and took the first pill during my lunch break.

Then, I returned to work (then - the control room of a major broadcaster), where I was told that I "started to make noises like a cow" whilst racing around the room on my chair.

After none of my colleagues joined me in a rousing rendition of The Blacksmith's Song", I sat in the middle of the floor, rocking back and forth like one of those bears you see in animal welfare adverts during Countdown.

I'd like to say it took three grown men to hold me down, but I'm a weakling, and they got a nice nurse to lead me away.

Larium: Best taken just before you go to bed. That way you only have the Hullaballoo in your sleep.
(ScaryduckLIKES EGG, Thu 16 Sep 2010, 13:43,
2 replies)

Acid and home-made ninja turtles
These sort of stories are very hard to write about without sounding like a boasty twat. Still that's exactly what I am so here goes.

One of the most memorable was when I travelled to Birmingham to pick up a batch of Hoffmans, some high strength blotter acid. We got home, and from then on the night is a blur. I awoke the next afternoon in the airing cupboard, clutching a flowerpot with a telephone taped to my chest.

I clambered out of my cupboard to survey a scene of devastation. Every door handle in the house had a carton of orange juice pushed on to it, with large puddles on the floor. Raising my eyes heavenwards I saw, instead of God, a variety of pizza packaging and canned food and drink gaffer taped to the ceiling.

Cursing, I made my way downstairs, and opened the balcony windows to let some fresh air in. As I did so I looked down, and there, twelve stories below, was the tv out of my bedroom, along with the contents of my freezer (mainly belonging to my housemate).

Sighing, I took a stella out of the fridge, rummaged through the kitchen ashtray to make a butt spliff, chuckled ruefully, and made an adult decision to clean up later, after a bit of shuteye.

With the shock arrived some flashbacks - the gaffer tape fun had continued and with the aid of glowsticks had made him some nunchucks, a gaffer tape eye-band (which later removed his eyebrows), a wok as a shell (it was never the same afterwards) and some t-shirts as knee pads
(disasterprone"Pyjamas caused the Holocaust", Mon 20 Sep 2010, 12:39,
5 replies)